


a different kind of drift

by ninemoons42



Category: Pacific Rim (2013), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mind Meld, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:44:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik Lehnsherr Drifts with Charles Xavier, and falls right into him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a different kind of drift

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I did say I'd been wanting to write an out-and-out XMFC+Pacific Rim PWP. Took me a while to get there, and now, after a splendidly fannish weekend, here it is.

_Breaking neural handshake in 3, 2, 1 -_

He knows what coming back out of the Drift feels like, he knows the freight-train-to-the-chest slam of it, one moment intimately entangled in his own mind and in the mind of the other person holding the bridge so that it was the complete sensory experience, as vivid as memories and as real as the rasp of his own breath in his ears - and then all of that gone, gone, ripped away from him on disengaging.

It had been a little easier when Erik hadn’t known the other people he was being tested with. He knows in his head and in his nerves and in his skin that that kind of connection dissipates rapidly, lost as fast as exhaled smoke on a brisk wind. 

But here, now, is different, because he’s been walking in the memories of a man with a strange Anglo-American accent, a man with two freckles dead center on the bridge of his nose between his eyes, a man with blue eyes like the heart of a Pacific storm - and when he opens his eyes that man is still next to him, shivering and sweating enough to make his dark hair curl. Soft swearing pouring melodically from red red lips. 

Here, now, is different, because he’s been drifting with someone and they’re compatible, as closely linked now as no one else has ever been before and ever will be, and Erik’s not steady at all when he gets to his feet and totters over to the other side of the table.

“Charles,” he says, and his voice is a rough whisper. The question escapes him before he can stop himself, awkward, too new on his tongue. He’s never had to ask this one before, but he does so now. “Charles, are you all right?”

Charles breathes harshly, inhale and exhale and inhale again, before he can reply - and he sounds just as shaken as Erik does. “I - no, actually, _no_ , how can anyone be all right after anything like that? I - you - your mind - ”

“Nothing nice inside my head, I warned you about that, and you _insisted_ \- ”

“Shut _up_ ,” Charles growls, and Erik does, because Charles surges up from the chair and grabs his wrist and he’s not expecting the force of it, the conviction in Charles’s eyes: “You have an amazing mind, you’re powerful and unexpected and amazing, and I’m going to do everything in my power to show you that you’re not alone, you’re not alone.” A deep breath. Charles does not blink and meets Erik’s eyes confidently, now that he’s shaking a little less. “You let me inside your head. And you know what’s in mine. We are doing this, together. You and me and a Conn-Pod and Magnet Blue.”

“Good to hear,” a new voice says, and Erik turns around and there is Marshall Stacker Pentecost, and behind him the girl - Mako Mori - nods and checks something off on that ever-present clipboard of hers, deadly earnest written in every line of her face. “Back to testing at 0900 hours. Get some rest, you two. You’re going to need it.”

“So we’re in?” Erik asks.

“You’re in,” the Marshall says. 

“Okay,” Charles says, and then he turns smartly on his heel, pulls away from Erik.

Erik looks at his wrist where Charles had just been holding on to him, uncomprehending: why is that grip gone? Why does he want Charles’s hand wrapped around him like that? Why can he remember the absolute strength of that hand, why is he certain that he’s going to bruise from that contact - and why does he want that bruise? 

He picks up his jacket and starts to follow, and the girl gets in his way and never flinches even as he barely keeps himself from running her down. “What?” he growls at her.

If anything, the look on her face sharpens. “You picked a fine rabbit to chase, Lehnsherr,” Mori says, and then she weaves around him and is gone.

By the time Erik manages to step out of the testing rooms there is no longer any sign of Charles having been in the corridor.

He’s all but running by the time he makes it to the Rangers’ living quarters, nearly trips over the English bulldog that seems to live with one of the other Jaeger teams - and then there’s a voice that’s a livewire in Erik’s system, a voice that stops him in his tracks:

“You’ve gone a bit too far to be looking for your own room, haven’t you?”

Erik whirls, and a woman with bleached blonde hair walks past him, followed by a towering man with the same hairstyle, and when they’re gone he can see Charles framed in a door several feet away. There is a towel draped around his neck and a small colorful box in his hand.

“You’re billeted upstairs if I remember correctly,” Charles tells him as he approaches. “Why’re you down here?”

Erik catches a glimpse of Charles’s free hand, a loose fist resting on the metal door, and he looks at his own wrist and then he’s bearing down on him - and ever prudent, ever one step ahead of him, Charles steps neatly aside and lets Erik walk all the way into his room.

The door closes behind them with a quietly contained _clang_.

A bed, a desk, bare walls, one single photograph in the room, and books everywhere: even Erik, who travels as lightly as he can manage and can fit almost everything inside his room in two duffel bags, has more in his room than just this.

It’s a momentary distraction; there’s a sound of ripping and Erik turns his head to see that the box in Charles’s hand has a picture of an orange on the outside. Charles is drinking directly from the makeshift spout he’s made out of the top of the container, and when he sees Erik looking he swallows and says, politely, “Juice?”

Erik takes the box from him and puts it down on the desk, and then steps towards Charles, until he’s well within the other man’s idea of personal space, whatever it might be. They are close enough now that he can feel the gust of Charles’s exhalations, that he can feel the heat radiating off Charles’s broad shoulders.

“I saw what you were carrying around in your head,” Erik says, and he waves one hand to indicate the room they’re standing in. “I know that’s your sister in the photograph. I know what the two of you went through when you were growing up. I know that these books are part of your reason for enlisting. I know that you never even expected to be a Ranger candidate, much less get on the Jaeger crew lists.”

“Yes,” Charles says, evenly. His eyes are even darker, now.

“What did you see inside my head,” Erik asks.

“Everything,” is the matter-of-fact reply. “I know that your parents died from black-market medicines made from kaiju parts. That you hunted down the people who made and sold those drugs and then - against your better judgement - turned them all over to the authorities. I know that a kaiju attack killed your lover and the son you’d adopted.” There is a pause, and Charles swallows, and Erik watches the spasmodic movement of his Adam’s apple. “I know that you initially forgot that we’d met in the Lima Shatterdome and that you’ve been trying to remember it since. I can help you with that. 

“Most importantly: I know that you want me. Have done since you came to Hong Kong.”

“Do you? Want me? Because I saw myself in your head, Charles. What was I doing in there? _Tell me._ ”

Red stains Charles’s cheeks, but he lifts his chin and continues to meet Erik’s gaze. “I want you, yes. And when I say that I’m not just talking about you and me and a Jaeger. I’m talking about you and me and my bed and yours.”

Erik smiles. “I wish you could be inside my head right now.”

“Why?”

He leans in, so he can speak very nearly into the shell of Charles’s ear. “Because when you took my wrist in the testing room I didn’t want you to let go. Because when you touched me - it was the first time you’d ever touched me,” he drops his voice, “I wanted to come. Preferably on you. Or at your command. Whatever you want, Charles.”

When he pulls back Charles’s flush has spread - upwards to his hairline, downwards past his collar, and Erik really wants to know just how far down it goes.

“Prove it,” Charles says, suddenly.

“Prove what?” Erik asks, though he thinks he might know the answer.

Charles seizes his wrist again, all but yanks him in, and Erik hisses and sways toward him, helplessly.

“You know I want you and I know you want me - so prove it,” Charles whispers, the words rough and hot against Erik’s cheek. “Show me what you want. Show me what’s in your head right now, and I’ll show you what’s in mine. Turnabout, after all.”

Erik wants to laugh, and doesn’t waste his time - he steps back from Charles, but only just, and as soon as he’s done stripping he offers his wrist again, and he lets out a breath when Charles seizes at him and hangs on.

He knows what Charles is looking at: scars and skin and muscle.

His nerves are all on fire and it’s not unlike being in the Drift, especially now that the man who’s looking at him is the same man he’s just been connected to. Dark knowledge in Charles’s eyes, mischief and lust, and he is almost breathless with the need to follow Charles. 

“You are more beautiful than I ever let myself imagine,” Charles says, and then the next thing Erik knows is that he’s being reeled in, that Charles’s other hand is coming up to thread through the short hairs just above his nape - and then everything fades out because Charles’s mouth is on his, hot and sweetly demanding, and Erik whines and feels his knees buckle and he tries to get closer, and manages to slide his arm around Charles’s waist.

Charles murmurs something encouraging and shifts closer, and continues to plunder Erik’s mouth. A paradox of a kiss: Charles is slow and languid as he winds his tongue almost lazily around Erik’s, and Charles is in a hurry as he nips Erik’s bottom lip, almost hard enough to draw blood.

Erik surges forward, then, and he breaks free of Charles’s grip on him, fumbling desperately at button and collar and cuffs and he pulls away just to swear and say, “Why the fuck are you still _dressed_?”

And Charles smiles at him, slow dark languid; he steps back and out of his clothes at just the right pace, piece by piece until he, too, is bare to Erik’s eyes, to Erik who knew about his scars and his birthmarks in the abstract and can now see them in the flesh, and Erik leans forward and bends down, seals his mouth over a marking that makes him think of stars and structures and dark matter in deep space.

“ _Erik,_ ” Charles all but moans, and the sound of it fills up the room and the rapidly shrinking spaces between them, and by the time Erik notices that there’s a foot hooking around one of his ankles he’s barely noticed the fall or the landing on the hard cot: all he knows is that Charles is on top of him, knees tightly bracketing his waist, hands burning on his shoulders.

“Charles,” Erik whispers in reply - and he shudders and falls before him, bares his throat.

He can feel Charles pressing him down, he can feel their shared heartbeat, the unmistakable hard heat pressing into his thigh, the blood rushing to his cock in response, so quickly that he’s suddenly lightheaded.

It takes a moment before he can register that there are words between them, that Charles is whispering, and that the words are sweet and hot against Erik’s mouth: “Would you have wanted me like this if you hadn’t been able to get into my mind? Would you have been this needy if we hadn’t been Drift-compatible?”

“That - that helps,” and Erik chokes back a moan as Charles starts rocking into him, insidious, breathtakingly good. “But that wouldn’t have been the only thing.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” is the reply, and then Erik opens his eyes just in time to see Charles smile, one more dark feral glimpse, before he slaps at Erik’s hip and snaps, “Move.”

Erik scrambles back - there’s not enough space on this cot, and he groans as he moves because there’s such delicious friction in all the places they’re touching. Charles’s cock next to his, and he can’t help himself, he wants to feel its weight, and Charles groans so prettily above him that he opens his hand again, takes himself and Charles in hand and starts to stroke, to the pounding rhythm of their breaths, as labored as they’d been when they first initiated the neural handshake.

This is a different kind of drifting together, Erik thinks, especially when Charles grabs his wrist again to direct the pace: now fast and urgent and driving, now slow and drugging. He’s utterly lost in the sounds that Charles makes, in the way Charles shifts against him, and all he can do is respond as best as he can, urging him on: “More,” he whines, “more, Charles, please - ”

“Erik, Erik,” is the response, already falling apart at the edges, and Erik’s eyes fly open, he’s out of breath, he’s out of time, and he opens his mouth to a desperate fleeting kiss before he goes into overload, into overdrive, wet heat splashing his hand and Charles moaning as he rides out the rush of his release, a long helpless sound, ringing down every inch of Erik’s nerves.

Charles throws a hand towel in his direction, and Erik barely catches it and he’s clumsy when he cleans them both up, and he mutters, already most of the way to sleepy, “I know what you use this for.”

“Like you don’t have one of those yourself,” is Charles’s half-intelligible reply.

Erik just pulls him closer, knows that Charles likes to hang on to someone else when he sleeps, and he passes out to the welcome warmth of him.


End file.
